J 3T5 i ay 9 






Xmn-EO STATES OF AMERICA. 



LEISURE HOURS. 



^^MM^^ 




/ gaxed iutenselij on the siilran scetif, 
And thouyht I stir aniiHier lieitveii iKhir." 



^I^Q: J -^ 




'• Behold in these what leisure 

hours demand, 
Amusement and true knowledge 

hand in hand." — Cuu-pei: 




PUBLISHED BY THE AUTHOR. ^- 







Entered, according to Act of Congress, A. D. 1870, 

By JOHN A. LANIGAN, 

in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. 

The Sage, Sons & Co. Lith., Print' g and Mfg. Co., Buffalo, X. T. ■ 



TO 



The rev. JAMES A. LANIGAN 



THE SECOND EDITION OF 



These P 



ESE rOEMS 



IS MOST RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED 



LOVING BROTHER, 



THE AUTHOR. 



PREFACE. 

Although it has of late become fashionable among 
authors, to attribute the publication of their works to the 
earnest and repeated solicitations of a host of friends, I 
regret that I cannot conform myself to the general rule 
of etiquette on this point. My only apology for intruding 
myself, or rather my work, on the public is, that, as the 
first edition of my poems met with a considerable success, 
the second, I hope, may receive equal, if not greater, 
favor from the public. 

Tastes differ with individuals; one delights in the 
description of a battle field, another reads with pleasure 
anything relating to the picturesque. To please all is an 
impossibility; to try, therefore, to do so, would be a 
mistake, and one must be satisfied, as I am at present, 
with the consciousness that he has done all that laid in 
his power to please himself. (3f course, therein I have 
not incurred censure, for such is the precept of wisdom. 
It may be asked why nearly all my poems relate in some 
way, either directly or indirectly, to Nova Scotia. I deem 
this a sufficient answer: it is the place of my birth. 

" Breathes there a man with soul so dead, 
Who never to himself hath said. 
This is my oivn, my native land." 



X Preface. 

I feel as if I could never tire discoursing on the many 
beauties of my native land. I can say no words half 
strong enough to express the feelings that burn within 
me. 

It is true Nova Scotia is not very well known here, 
and there are some who, on being introduced to a Nova 
Scotian, would be very much surprised if his nasal organs 
were not greeted with the flavor oi fish. But believe me, 
this is a sad mistake. No place in America is blessed 
with a healthier climate, none more abounding in sceneiy 
equal, if not superior, to any part of the Hudson or St. 
Lawrence. Nor must we imagine it covered with snow, 
as some, either owing to the inventive character of their 
natures, or the exuberance of their imaginations, have 
said; for, although there is a healthy frost quite sufficient 
to give a rosy appearance to the complexion without the 
assistance of paint, yet the winter is not so changeable 
as in other .places, and hence more healthy. In a 
word, a trip to the land of the may-flower would 
not be without interest. This Longfellow, in his 

" Evangeline," Mrs. , in her " Pauline," Buckley's 

" Pencillings by the Way," and ]\Iurdoch's " History of 
Acadia," plainly demonstrate. 

To conclude; if in this little volume I can offer a 
tribute of love which will repay, even in part, the debt 
of gratitude which I owe to my native land, I will rest 
satisfied; the rest I leave to the intrinsic value of the 
poems themselves. 



m'^i 



t^ 



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^^M'— 



INDEX TO VOLUME. 

Page. 

Introduction.— "Acadia, my Home by the Sea," . 13 

Kissing Bridge, 15 

The Wanderer's Return, 18 

Lines, written during a Thunder Storm, ... 19 

The Poor Blind Man, 21 

To my old Violin, 22 

Think of Me, 25 

Ode to my Hat, 26 

Death of a Parrot, 28 

To Carrie, 30 

Prophecy, 31 

The Lighthouse, 32 

For Ever and Anon, 34 

Canadian Reviewers: a Satire, S6 

The Rambler: a Tale of Nova Scotia, ... 40 

The Prisoner, 71 

Midnight Mass in Montreal College, .... 79 

Lines on the Burning op Strasburg Cathedral, . 8& 

A Letter, 90 



Index to Volume. 



MISCELLANEOUS SCRAPS. 

To Ella, 93 

Answer to some Sarcastic Versus t.y J. P Clark, . 93 

To Lizzie, on her Birthday, 95 

Impromptu at an Evening Party, .... 96 

Lines on Presenting a Lady with my Picture, . . 96 

Lines written on a Valentine to Carrie E— y, . 97 

Lines on being presented with ax Ivory Pocket-book 98 

To Anna, 99 

Epitaph on my Sister, 100 

Lines Written in an Albu.m, 100 

Lines to a Friend, 101 

To Annie, 102 

Ode to the Lily, 108 

To Hannah, written in her Albuji, . . . .104 

The Hunter's Morninc; S(.)Nc., 105 

Moral, 106 




LEISURE HOURS 



INTRODUCTION 



ACADIA, MY HOME BY THE SEA. 



A WAY o'er the blue rolling waters, 
•^^ To Acadia's fair clime to-night, 
My heart, with true native dev^otion. 

Wanders back, in its joyous delight. 
To the friends whom so fondly I cherish. 

To the scenes where I whispered Good-bye, 
And oh ! sooner shall memory perish 

Than the thoughts of Acadia die. 

(2) 



14 Leisure Hours. 

^'Out, out on thy calm waters rowing, 

Where I chanted thy sweet songs by night, 
I gazed on each form 'mid the glowing 

That shone from the pJiosphoric light ; 
Out, out on thy calm waters steering 

I am chanting thy sweet songs once more, 
And list for your frigate's wild cheering 

As the anthem they loudly encoi'c. 

^' When the moon o'er the waters is beaming, 

Do you think of the one who 's away, 
But whose heart on this eve in its dreaming, 

Far back to Acadia doth stray? 
Oh I dear to my heart are thy places, 

Acadia, thou gem of the sea ! 
But dearer by far are the faces 

Of the friends who were comrades with 
me. 



''And now in my lone chamber sitting, 
As, despondent, I muse here to-night, 

Sweet visions of pleasure are flitting 
Around in the evening's dim light; 



Leisure Hours. 15 

There are sighs for the joys that have perished, 
There are hopes that again I may see 

The friends whom so fondly I cherished, 
In Acadia, my home by the sea." 

KISSING BRIDGE. 

TN a valley to the Eastward, 

Where a streamlet gently glides, 
Stands an ancient little stone bridge, 
Green by time and worn by tides. 

Here I 've often stood and wondered, 
As I watched the brawny wave 

Rise and swell against the sea-shore, 
Will that ever be my grave. 

Once, about the hour of midnight, 
As the moon was rising slow 

From behind the distant mountain, 
Smiling on the tide below, 



1 6 Leisure Hours. 

I strayed along the lonely valley, 
'Neath the shadow of the ridge, 

And watched the silvery streamlet rushing 
Down its rock path to the bridge ; 

i thought, when looking high above me 
At the big, bright golden moon, 

Of the many trials before me, — 
Was I going to meet them soon? 

Many things I thought, while watching 
How the shadow and the light 

Blended like man's dreary lifetime — 
One part cloudy, one part bright. 

Out upon the chilly waters 

Silently a bark made way. 
Lest she 'd wake the slumbering billow 

Of the fair Chebucto Bay. 

And I watched her every movement, 
As she strove to catch the breeze; 

But it seemed to shun her canvas. 
For it murmured to the trees. 



Leisure Hours' 17 

Soon its dusky form grew plainer, 
And it seemed to near the shore, 

Till the sailors in the rigging 

Could be seen, but nothing more. 

But the hour was growing later, 

And the air was getting chill. 
So I turned my footsteps homeward. 

Though 'twas partly 'gainst my will. 

Many years have come and vanished 
Like the thoughts I cherished then, 

But that bridge is ever standing 
To accommodate all men; 

And will stand for ages coming, 

'Gainst both time and tide and wave, 

Till the tide of time shall bear me 
O'er its bosom to my grave. 




THE WANDERER'S RETURN. 

'T^HE night winds blew bitter and cold. 

And the snow flakes fell deep at the door, 
And a wanderer came weak and old 

To the cot that he owned once before, 
And he asked for admittance therein, 

To warm his weak limbs at the fire, 
But his voice sounded dead on the wind, 

And the snow grew still higher and higher. 

And he called to his son from below : 

'' 'Tis thy father that begs at thy door; " 
But he laid himself down in the snow. 

For his limbs had grown tired and sore. 
''Can you let your poor father lie here 

And perish amid this cold snow? 
Tell me, quick! or I '11 die in dispair; — 

In thy pity, my son, do n't say no ! 



Leisure Hours. 19 

In the morn, when the people passed by, 

With amazement they gazed on his corpse ; 
Half buried in snow there he lay, 

And he held in his hand a small cross. 
And the house was untenanted then, 

For his son had long since gone away; 
So not far from his house, in the glen. 

Lay his bones in their cold bed to-day, 

Septembey-, 1866. 



LINES 

WRITTEN DURING A THUNDER STORM. 

'T^HE sky, an hour ago, was clear, 
^ And brilliant was the sun; 
The earth and all around were sear, 

And so the day began. 
But now 'tis changed, and what a change! 

The whole of Heaven is dark. 
And all along its mighty range 

The leaping thunders bark. 



5 Leisure Hours. 

See how the busy hum is hushed ! 

A God has spoken now, 
And by His word yon tree is crushed ; 

He makes the proudest bow. 
The city belles that flirting came 

An hour ago, are gone, 
And Great St. James and Notre Dame 

Are now both left alone. 



Hark ! from its murky cavern roars 

The thunder through the skies ; 
And see ! the vivid lightning pours 

New terror as it flies. 
The drunkard trembling seeks his home, 

Insensible with rum. 
And there he meets his children cold. 

His wife with terror dumb. 



Roll on, thou mighty thunder, roll. 
Thy voice inspires my mind; 

I love to see thee thus control 
The spirit of mankind. 



Leisicre Hours. 

Ha ! how he shrinks beneath thy roar, 
And seeks some sheltering place : 

Roar on, brave thunder, as before, 
And terrify man's race. 



THE POOR BLIND MAN. 

TDITY, oh ! i^ity a poor blind man, 

Having a child to look after ; 
^Give me a copper, oh ! give, if you can. 
It will do you a service hereafter. 

Pity, oh! pity a poor blind man, 

Doomed for a living to wander 
Along the cold streets, in the snow, pale and 
wan, — 

Oh ! give me the money you 'd squander. 

Why do you turn from me thus, dear sir? 
Have you no heart or no feeling? 



2 2 Leisure Hours. 

You feel not the cold while you 're wrap'd in 
your fur, 
Like the child that you see by me kneeling. 

Remember, dear sir, Judgment Day has to pass, 
And all men shall get satisfaction, 

When the good and the bad shall be mixed in 
one mass, 
And all men shall be judged for each action. 



^'^■ 



LINES TO MY OLD VIOLLN. 



n^HERE, in the corner. 

Sleeps my old sire. 
While I keep watching 
The simmering fire. 



Once it was merry, 
Poor little thing. 



Leism^e Hours. 23 

Now it 's forgotten, 
Though it 's a king. 

A king whose gay chirpings 

First gained him renown, 
But now he 's grown weak 

For the want of a crown. 

There he lays sleeping; 

Hushed are the strains 
That flowed o'er my soul 

Like the blood through'my veins. 

When in the twilight, 

Mellow and gray, 
His loud, silvery notes 

Were heard far away, 

Chirping like linnets. 

With music so sweet. 
Mocking each twist 

Of the children's feet. 



2 4 Leisure Hours. 

As they danced in a group 
Out on the beach, 

Slowly I watched the 
Manoeuvres of each. 



But past are those days, 

And the viol is hushed, 
While the heart that once leaped 
. At its music is crushed. 

And the children are gone, — 
Some are scattered like grain; 

But deep in my mind 

Their young figures remain. 

Once I thought, as I took up 

My viol to play, 
That amusement and time 

Would soon bear them away. 

But those thoughts were mistaken; 
My viol 's no more; 



Leisure Hours. 25 

And I see their young visions 
As bright as before. 

It lays there in want of 

A great many things, 
But the most of them all 

Is a set of new strings. 



THINK OF ME. 

WRITTEN, WHEN LEAVING BOSTON, DEC, 1 865. 

Fare thee well ! and if forever, 
Still forever, fare thee well. — Byron. 

Fare thee well ! as now we 're parting. 

You to wander o'er the sea : 
'Tis sad to think that thou art starting; 

But, in sorrow, think of me. 

If thy heart sighs o'er the billow. 
Or thy spirit, brave and free, 



2 6 Leisure Hours. 

Feels no rest upon its pillow, 

Wandering, weeping, think of me. 

Thou hast friends, remember, dearest, 
And a home where'er you be ; 

Let all those who whisper nearest, 
Slip aside and think of me. 



^9 



TO MY HA T. 

/^^OME, hat ; how fares it with thee ? Thou 

art pale, — 
A ghastly thing, hung there upon a nail. 
Tell me thou wast made of goodly stuff, 
To fade away from purest white to buff ! 
I can't say much ; but this I 'm bound to say, 
We 've had our share of hardships ; so, to-day, 
W^e ' 11 pull our luck together. This droll planet 
Owes us each a living ; so we '11 have it. 



Leisure Hours. 27 

Throw off that dull appearance, and look bright ; 
We both have youth before us, — there, that 's 

right. 
I'll brush thee more, perhaps it serves as food : 
They say a rubbing, now and then, is good. 

How oft did Bella J. knock thee about. 

And with her everlasting throat cry out, 

" Oh, what a donkey ! why not get another, 

And give that played-out beauty to your brother. ' ' 

I, with a sigh, said : Dearest, come to me. 

I did not mean the lady, but to thee 

Were those sweet words addressed ; so cheer up 

hat, 
I like thee all the better, then, for that : 
You 've seen me through my troubles, toils, and 

pain, 
Now see me through my happy hours again. 
If she went through as much as you and I, 
She 'd laid herself down long ago to die. 






DEATH OF A PARROT. 

WRITTEN EXPRESSLY FOR A FRIEND, 
MISS L. JAMIESON. 

A S I sat in your kitchen talking, 
^^ With the friends that gathered there, 
And watched ''Poor Polly" mocking 

Each word that caught her ear, 
My tale was quickly ended, 

By the change wrought in affairs ; 
Your hearts had all awakened, 

Your eyes were filled with tears : 
" Poor Polly" had just fainted. 

And fell upon her head. 
But why should I thus paint it : 

'Twas death ; " Poor Poll " was dead ! 



Leisure Hours. 29 

Her mistress then went rushing 

To Polly's prison door, 
Where its inmate lay quite senseless 

On the hay imbedded floor. 
Each one caressed it fonder, 

To relieve it from its pain : 
But why our time thus squander, 

Poor Poll ne'er spoke again. 
We strove to make it utter 

Some words, and raise its head : 
It croaked, and then it fluttered. 

But not a word it said. 



When, with a rock for a pillow, 

And the forest for my bed. 
The mem'ry of this story 

Annoyed my youthful head, 
I penned it down on paper. 

Ne'er to be defaced. 
By man or woman's caper. 

Without wit to replace. 
It's death, I mourned it sadly ; 

And would that I could give 

(3) 



) Leisure Hours 

It life, I then would gladly 
Have prayed for it to live. 



-^C 



TO C- 



WRITTEN FOR MASTER H. C. BELL. 

/^AN it be that I 'm forsaken? 

^^ Has my love received that frown ? 

Can I not one tear awaken 

In those eyes of glossy brown ? 

I did love thee, brown-eyed maiden, 
Love that lips can ne'er unfold; 

But you scorned me ; and my soul. 
This very moment, has grown cold. 

Tell me, fair one, — I w^ould know, that 
If this heart, though young it be, 

Must be crushed, then be it so ; at 
Other times vou '11 think of me. 



PROPHECY 



A BOUT seven years shall pass o'er Deco's 
-^ head,— 

That is, if she 's alive, and I 'm not dead, — 
When her false heart, indignant though it be. 
Shall perish in its pride ; and I shall see 
The once fair " Isabella" kneel in pain 
To sue, and beg this heart to love again ! 
But she shall see that this unconquered heart 
Shall then refuse to give its meanest part ; 
And every tear that falls from her brown eye 
Shall cause this heart another throb of joy. 
Oh ! sweet remorse, avenger of the right, 
Place her deceitful heart before the light ; 
Teach her to love the eye that 's bathed in blue, 
For it 's the window of a heart that 's true. 



THE LIGHTHOUSE. 

/^UT upon the surging ocean, 
^^ Stanch and firm, without a motion. 
Smiling on the waves' commotion, 
Stands the lighthouse on a rock. 

Ever watching, ever waiting 
There from time without a dating, 
There it hears the waves relating 
Stories of the stormy deep. 

Oh ! how sweet to see it lighting, 
When the winds and waves are fighting, 
Midst their wild uproar, delighting 
The poor mariner at sea. 



Leisure Hours. 33 



While their bark is homeward steering, 
And all men on deck are cheering 
As they find themselves anearing 
Nova Scotia's rocky shore. 

It seems to say, ''I've heard the crying 
Of some wayworn sailor dying. 
When no other soul was nigh him 
Save his angel and his God." 

Thus, when dangers hover near me, 
May I see some light to steer me. 
And some goodly bark to bear me 
Safe across the sea of life. 




FOR EVER AND ANON. 

TTARK! to the bell, 

From the distant tower, 
As it sounds so sweet 

At every hour. 
And the river flows 

Past its moss-fringed banks, 
And the people assemble 
To give God thanks, 

For ever and anon. 



Look at the moon. 
With its silver hue, 

As jt rides high o'er 
The waters blue. 



Leisure Hours. 35 

And from the waters 

A swelling breeze 
Complains in sorrow 

To the trees, 

For ever and anon. 

There, on the hill, 

With its long gray spire. 
The village chapel 

Stands a sire. 
And the people throng there. 

Both night and day, 
With their books and beads, 

That they may pray. 

For ever and anon. 




CANADIAN RE VIE WEES. 



A SATIRE. 



" O, God ! inspire mj' pen that I may teach those hard-hearted 
fools that which sleepeth in my mind." — Anon. 

" Prepare for rhyme — I '11 publish, right or wrong: 
Fools are my theme, let satire be my song. 

A man must serve his time to every trade, 

Save censure, critics all are ready made." — Byron. 

"Such shameless bards we have; and yet, 'tis true. 
There are as mad, abandoned critics, too." — Pope. 



/^NCP^ upon a time I read a book — 
^^ On what, on whom, I'm sure I did n't look 
And this contained a flood of youthful rhyme. 
Written by some young author in his time; 



Leisure Hours. 37 

And though his verse was empty, and some say 
It had not sense enough to throw away, 
Still there was food for critics' puny brains, 
Who, after having eaten all with pains, 
Spoke out and said it had not sense, and why? 
Because they ate it all. And, by-the-by, 
I, too, did write a book, not long ago, 
And even thought its verse was fit to show; 
For when I tried to write, and found I could, 
I read it o'er again and thought it good. 
I wrote some more, and wrote, and wrote again 
Another song, but in a different strain ; 
So thus the book increased, and page by page 
I saw it grow quite stout, and thought by age 
I 'd see it go to print, and thus would gain 
The first step to the pyramid of fame. 



II 



A month passed by; I saw the book in print; 
And as I sold it here and there, like mint 
It spread around, and even men of care 
Pronounced the work as being pretty fair. 



38 Leisure Hours. 

But oh ! sad thought ! it came to critics' view^ 
So then to fortune and success, adieu. 
First, in his antique chair, with hair upright, 
John Dougall sits, and shouts with all his might ; 
Not from his deep deep voice, nor yet deep 

brain, — 
For brains he had none, — but with borrowed 

strain. 
He roars among the columns of a paper 
That, like himself, is but a flickering taper. 
Men saw his tough review and thoughtful said 
•^'Is this a whim of Dougall's crazy head? " 
They laughed at him, and as from friends I 've 

heard. 
That, like himself, 'twas utterly absurd. 

And shall such men as Cameron commence. 
Without the smallest germ of common sense ; 
Who strains his nerves to write a line or two. 
Yet has the cheek to scribble a review? 
Poor, foolish would-be bard, how simply droll 
Are all your penny essays ; yet your soul 
Sighs for a place among the men of fame, 
Where yet, they have not even heard your name. 



Leisure Hours. 



39 



III 



And thus it was when Byron first began 

To write in verse ; he followed his own plan, 

And laughed and sneered at them, and wrote 

again, 
Until he made them reverence his name. 




THE RAMBLER 



A TALE OF NOVA SCOTIA, FOUNDED ON FACT. 

[ ADVERTISEMENT.] 

The scene of the following poem is laid among the mountains of 
Acadia, or, as it is now called, Nova Scotia. Time, commencing from 
about the latter end of April, 1746, to the siege of Grand-Pre, nth 
Feb., 1747. 

This little work, in three cantos, is founded on fact, though mingled 
with romance ; and gives a short, but concise, description of the scen- 
ery, and customs and manners of the Acadians ; together with a full 
account of the siege of Grand-Pre. 

The "Rambler" is. Edwin J. Ruthven, a young hunter about 18 
years of age, with whom the reader will be more acquainted during 
the course of the poem. The name "Juan" is also, in several places, 
used for the same person. 

N. B. — I am indebted to Murdoch's Historj- of Nova Scotia for the 
dates of the siege of Grand-Pre. 



Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see. 
My heart, untravelled, fondly turns to thee ; 
Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain. 
And drags at each remove a lengthening chain." 

Goldsmith. 



Leisure Hours. 41 



CANTO FIRST 



T CROSSED thy stream, fair Sissibou, alone, 

About the hush of night ; and all was still. 
Save the rippling of thy waters 'gainst a stone 
That gilded thy gray beach from hill to hill : 
And, as I plied my paddle 'gainst the wave, 

I heard the carol of some distant frog, 
And, turning towards the ruined tower, I gave 
One searching glance amid the neighboring 
bog. 
But all is hush'd again ; and with one stroke 
Of my suspended oar 
I reached the shore, 
And, jumping out, drew up my skiff of oak, 
And sat me down upon the nearest rock. 



II. 



Methought I saw, at times, a bird or two 

Fly out from midst the barrens, and then soar 



42 Leisure Hours. 

High above the castle, turn and view 

The ruined pile, from pinnacle to shore. 
Slowly it descends, and slower still 

It glides along the surface of the lake ; 
Touches its wing, then, soaring past the mill. 

Returns in pleasure to its native brake. 
I gazed intensely on the sylvan scene. 

And thought I saw another Heaven below : 
A thousand stars full sparkled on the green. 

And silver-tinted clouds passed to and fro. 
I turned, and looked upon that lurid scene. 

I stood midst fallen pilasters alone. 
Upon my mind dread thoughts of Scripture 
gleam : 

'' There shall not remain a stone upon a stone. ' ' 



III. 



The moon is hid, and darkness covers all ; 

A mystic stillness chills my very soul ; 
And through a moss-cover' d loop-hole in the 
wall 

A gurgling rivulet from the castle stole. 



Leisure Hours. 

I sat me down and wandered far away 

Back into memory's bosom, and I thought 

I saw my many school-mates, light and gay, 
Playing on the hill wliere oft I fought. 



IV. 



Dark grew the night, and darker still 
Grew everything, from mount to rill. 

Slumber hovered o'er my brow. 

And my thoughts were then, as now. 

Thoughts of happy hours gone by ; 
To which I answered with a sigh. 
Then sank in deep repose. 



A DREAM. 



43 



Gold and silver sparkle bright 

In the gaudy deep ; 
Angels cheer the misty air. 

Whilst I lay in sleep. 



44 Leisure Hours. 

And methinks I see my mother, 
Chanting with the rest ; 

And, with her appears my brother, 
Leaning on her breast. 

Softly, gently, he arises. 
And with empty glance. 

Looks on all the different sizes 
In the wide expanse. 

Ah, my mother ! thou art pointing 

To thy son on earth, 
And my soul thou art anointing 

With thy heavenly mirth. 

■if. i(i -^ -^ -i-f. ^ 

All is done, and I awaken 
From my glorious dream ; 

And, if I am not mistaken, 
I just heard a scream. 

Hark I it comes from yonder hill ; 

Here I cannot stay : 
Though it be against my will, 

I must, I must awav. 



Leisure Ho 



Then bounding off at greatest speed, 
I reached the rock-gilt shore, 

And, plowing on through lake and weed, 
Resumed my chase once more. 



And then I saw a man in years. 

Bearing a maiden young ; 
Cold and week, as if through fears. 

The maiden's heart was wrung. 

''Will no one help me?" loud she cried. 

''Is no one near me now?" 
"Silence! mad girl; you must abide 

By what I 've said, I vow." 

He laid her down upon the ground, 

And tied her to a stake. 
I sprang before him with one bound, 

Which caused his form to shake. 

"Give up ! give up that maid ! " I cried' 

' ' Deliver her, foul man ! ' ' 
"Never ! " the daring wretch replied ; 

"Come, take her, if you can." 

(4) 



45 



46 Leisure Ho ins. 

My proud blood burned. I could not stand. 

And see her thus despair : 
I grasped my sabre firm in hand, 

Then waved it in the air. 

Loud clashed our swords at every stroke, 

And full two hours we fought. 
I watched him well : with one fierce poke 

To reach my breast he sought. 

And, fearing not his two-edged steel, 

I wrenched it from his hand ; 
But, turning quickly, with one wheel 

He threw me on the sand. 

He would have stabbed me to the heart. 

For his was hard as stone. 
Had not my pistol played a part, 

And sent its death-note home. 



^^t^u 



Leisure Hours. 47 



CANTO SECOND, 



THE ARRIVAL. 



The night was cold, the hour was late, 
And Eveline stood at her father's gate; 
And, by the moonbeam's misty aid. 
Was seen a cottage in the shade. 
She turned, and, with o'erwhelming glee. 
Said, ''Come, Juan, come, follow me." 
Scarce had we entered upon the farm 
When the watch-dog gave a loud alarm, 
And bounded toward us. Eva cried, 
" Gussaa, Carlo ! " The dog complied. 
Soon after this we saw a light 
Beaming through the cottage sight, 
Then came her father to the door, 
And in his hand a candle bore. 
He called into the open air, 
''Speak out and tell me who comes there? 



48 Leisure Hours. 

Scarce had those words been finished, when 
His daughter, rushing through the glen, 
Cried, ''Father! father, it is 1 1 " 
And lo ! the old man heaved a sigh. 



II 



The man turned pale: "'Tis hard to tell;'' 

And from his hand the candle fell. 

''I had a daughter once," he said, 

' ' But she is gone ; aye, she is dead ! 

A serpent came and stole her away. 

And since that time my hair's turned gray. 

I sought her long, but sought in vain ; 

No Eveline near my cottage came. 

Yet still I watched, watched every night. 

Until I nearly lost my sight. 

I am not blind, for I can see 

My daughter Eveline's face in thee. 

Come in and tell me who was he 

Who dared to take thee 'way from me. 

But stop : am I half mad with joy, 

Or is not that I see a boy?" 



Leisure Hours. 49 

III. 

^'Oh, yes, dear father; yonder youth, 

If I must tell the very truth, 

Has saved my life, aye, he alone, 

And in the strife near lost his own. 

He is a hunter, bold and gay. 

Who braves the forest night and day." 



IV, 



'^Come, stay thee here," the old man said; 
''Thou need'st repose. Go, lay thy head 
Upon yon pallet; 'tis the best 
Our humble cot affords for rest." 
Calmly, yet boldly, I followed him 
Into his cottage, neat and trim ; 
And then I saw the red flames' gleam 
Upon the face of Eveline. 
I heard her tale: 'twas sad to hear, 
And from my eye-lids brought a tear ; 
And then she turned and said to me, 
'' juan, I owe my life to thee; 



50 Leisure Hours. 

Yet, how can I repay that life ? ' ' 

I answered, "If thou 'It be my wife." 



V. 



The maiden bkished, and hung her head. 
The old man, turning to her, said. 
With calm and aged tone of voice : 
"My girl, thou canst make thy choice. 
Be the brave young hunter's wife. 
And then live happy all your life." 



VI 



A tear fell from her mild blue eye. 
She answered me, through half a sigh, 

"I'm yours, Juan, forever." 
She said, "Oh! father, let us hear 
How times were when you chased the deer ! 
And how you haunted every nook. 
And signed your name to every brook. 
No doubt 'twill make Juan feel glad 
To think he 's such another lad." 



Leisure Hours. 51 



VII 



Her father bowed his hoary head, 
And Eva made the fire gleam red. 
Then he said: "■ My noble youth, 
Remember all I say is truth ; 
For I was once a hunter bold, 
And cared not that for puny gold, 
But hunted out in every gale. ' ' 
And thus commenced the old man's tale 



VIII. 

''When I was young, and hearty too, 

A lithesome lad, so much like you, 

I loved to roam o'er hill and dale. 

And linger long in every vale; 

And when I 'd hear the hunter's horn. 

Sounding loud at early morn. 

Up I 'd start at break of day, 

Off to the mountains I 'd away. 

And seek the summit of each rock, 

To watch the flight of the frightened hawk 



> Leisure Hours. 

Soaring high above the trees, 

And floating with the mountain breeze. 



IX 



*' And when I 'd hear the panting stag 
Bound o'er each alternate crag, 
I 'd lay me down upon the ground 
To hear the bay of the distant hound ; 
Then up I 'd spring with boyish glee, 
And, like the hunter gay and free, 
Would hunt the stag through forest lair, 
And watch his every bound with care. 
Then when he 'd stop to take a rest, 
I 'd point my rifle to his breast, 
And, when I 'd fire, the stag would fall. 
Then with exulting voice I 'd call: 
' I ' ve gained the day ! the chase is mine ! 
Hurrah! hurrah! for Acadia's clime ! 



"At last the hunter's dogs would come, 
Running towards me one by one; 



Leisure Hours. 53 

Then they would scent, and off again, 
But I would wait till their master came. 
And when he'd say, 'Well, Ned, my boy,' 
(For that 's the name they knew me by,) 
I 'd say, 'What ails you all to-day? 
The stag has kept you far at bay. 
But, friend, there's time: if you will wait. 
You'll see the rascal before late.' 
'Why! have you seen him? where is he? 
Is he, Neddy, towards the Lee? 
I '11 give you half I get, 'if you 
Will show me where the stag is to.' 



XI 



" ' Wha ho ! old chap; the stag is dead: 
Think you he could pass young Ned? 
No, no, he 's gone; I 've shot him. See, 
Stretched on yonder cliff is he. ' 
Say you so? why, Ned, my boy, 
You are the hunter's pride and joy; 
Come on, my lad, take yonder nag, 
And lead him gently o'er the crag.' 



54 Leisiwe Hours. 



XII 



''Then on we 'd totter to our home, 

And leave the hounds to hunt alone ; 

But, coming on the close of day, 

We 'd see the blood-hounds homeward stray. 

Merry passed the day; the night 

Would bring to me some new delight. 

1 'd list to the merry hunter's tale. 

As he quaffed and drank the warm brown ale. 

Thus slowly would the hours pass by, 

Until at length he 'd say 'Good-by.' " 

XIII. 

I could not stop to hear the rest ; 
My eyes grew dim, — I needed rest. 
And Eveline knew it, and she said, 
"Juan, dear, hurry off to bed: 
Say you not so, my father dear? 
'Tis time, I think; the morn is near." 
I smiled, and kissed my fair one's cheek, 
And laid me down, for I was weak. 



Leisure Hours. 55 

XIV. 

Next morn was May day. Girl and boy 

All around were mad with joy; 

May-flowers here and there were strewn, 

And from the woods the May-pole hewn. 

Ribbons of the brightest hue, 

With pretty girls, and flowers too; 

All deck'd the May-pole bright and gay, 

To crown the happy Queen of May. 

The hour had come: 'twas time to see 

Who that happy girl should be. 

The boys would cry, ''Let 's choose by wit; 

The one who answers best is it." 

Soon the news got spread around. 

The little lost one had been found ; ^ 

The boys, in joy, all kissed the girls, 

And hopped around like merry squirrels : 

But boys and girls both would say, 

''She shall be the Queen of May." 

XV. 

Eveline came to me and said, 

"Come and have some breakfast, Ned. 



^6 Leisure Hours. 

To-day the village will be gay; 
This is the merry month of May : 
The boys and girls dance and sing, 
And all the village Church bells ring : 
Hear them now; come, be gay, 
^^'e must see who 's the Queen of May 



XVI. 

We ate, and when our meal was done. 

And everything was cleared and gone, 

A youth came to the cottage door. 

And in his hand a letter bore. 

The letter was to Eveline, 

To meet her playmates on the green 

At nine o'clock that very day. 

And there be crowned the Queen of May 



When Eva took the note and read. 
She ran up to the boy and said, 



Leisure Hours. 

"Tell my playmates, I '11 be there, 
With a partner, do you hear? 
The one who saved my life, — a lad, 
Gay and lively, never sad. 
Can you doubt me? There is he, 
Standing right before you, — see. 
He 's a hunter do you know, — 
Hunts the stag, the deer, the roe. 
Tell them all I said, and more, 
To form the boys in four by four. 
Off you go, now; that 's the boy: 
A father's pride, a mother's joy." 



xviii . 

The feast commenced at nine that day^ 
And Eveline and I made way. 
In silence, towards the merry spot, 
And entered in the summer cot. 
Next came her courtiers to her aid, 
And in her hand some May-flowers laid,^ 
Then kissed her twenty times or more, 
Until they made her cheeks quite sore> 



58 Lcisiu'c Hours. 

The girls all gathered round the bower, 
And each one brought some pretty flower 
The boys came marching in a band, 
And each one bearing in his hand 
Some sign of love or honor, to 
Fair Eveline, their loved one, who 
That day would be the Queen of May, 
And govern all their youthful play. 



XI X. 

The band commenced to play alone. 
As Eve ascended to the throne. 
A smile to all, she then sat down. 
And waited for the bright May-crown. 
She did not have to wait thus, long, 
For soon there came the village throng, 
With ribbons gay, and boughs of green. 
To welcome home their young May Queen. 
And thus the crowd was gathered 'round, 
With anxious eye, to see her crowned. 
When came a maiden, young and fair. 
With bright blue eyes and galden hair; 



Leisure Hours. 59 

And in her right she held a wand, 
Which she placed in Eva's hand. 
Next came a lad with niit-brown hair, 
Though not the least resembling fair; 
But still the lad was handsome, and 
He was the Captain of the band ; 
And he it was who bore the crown, 
And mantle made of softest down. 
Then, lastly, came the Parson, Poes, 
With spectacles thrown 'cross his nose, 
And choaky, white as white could be. 
With coat as tight as tight could be : 
Thus solemn was the dress he wore. 
And in his hand a Bible bore. 
I will not tell you any more 
About what dress the others wore. 
Because my time I must not waste. 
They all were suited to their taste : 
Some wore dresses white as milk, 
Others wore the gayest silk. 
Thus they varied dress with fancy. 
Like the two names, Bess and Nancy. 



6o Leisure Hours. 



XX. 



But the festival began, I said; 

The crown was placed upon her head^, 

And she was made the happy Queen, 

My own, my sweetest Eveline ! 

And let me tell you she was gay. 

And well deserved to be Queen of May ; 

For when she rose before the crowd. 

And left the throne and to them bow'd, 

A shout of joy then filled the air, 

And she resumed the royal chair. 

The band struck up a lively tune, 

So sweet, — for me 'twas done too soon. 

We hunters seldom hear the like. 

Our drum and fife are in the dyke. 

Or on the mountain tops or crags 

Searching for the moose and stags. 

Such to us would seem a show 

Of Heaven : it did to me, I know. 

XXI. 

The air was filled with music sweet, 

As they marched along the village street ; 



Leisure Hours. 6i 

And Eveline called me to her side, — 

Of course I could not but abide. 

The march was short, and ended soon; 

The ceremony was done at noon, 

And, as the day was sere and fine, 

We sat upon the grass to dine. 

The feast went on so well and good — 

Better than we thought it would : 

And then they ate and drank with glee. 

Their hearts were light, their souls were free. 

No sins had they upon their mind. 

Not e'en a stain of any kind. 

But let me not stray from my tale, 

Or I will put my pen in jail. 

Ah ! it seems to take the hint, 

And knows it 's writing for the print. 



XXII. 

The feast was o'er, the fun began 
'Mongst boys and girls, woman and man 
All joined in with every game : 
'Twas only once a year it came; 

(5) 



62 Leisure Hours. 

And there were games, and sports, and races, 

And merry girls, with smiling faces. 

The May-pole dance was done with haste. 

But showed a deal of skill and taste. 

Then came the songs, and every one 

Listened when they had begun. 

I will not mention every song, 

'T would keep the reader much too long; 

I '11 merely say we passed the day 

In innocent and harmless play. 

The eve came on: we' had our tea; 

Merry jokes were passing free : 

The feast was done. 

And every one 
Went to their different abodes. 

XXIII . 

Nine months had come and gone again, 
Yet Eve and I were still the same : 
We loved each other more and more. 
Greater than we did before. 
Rumors of a war went 'round; 
Each man was to stand his ground ; 



Leisure Hours. 63 

Soldiers meant to guard their flag. 

I refused to chase the stag, 

But sought a sword among the rest, 

To pknige into some Frenchman's breast. 

Many hunters from afar 

Came to join us in the war. 

Thus excited, old and young 

Armed themselves with sword and gun; 

All together marched away 

To the beat of drum one day; 

And when Eva saw me go. 

Fast her tears began to flow, 

And her sobs were loud and wild. 

Sobbing like a little child, 

Still I left her there behind. 

With my heart, my soul, and mind. 

But though I left her sobbing there, 

I was too weak to shed a tear ; 

My heart was cold and dead. 
We marched that night and all next day, 
Through piles of snow that marr'd the way, 
And every man 
Look'd pale and wan 
When we stopp'd on the fields of old Grand- 
Pre. 



64 Leisure Hoiifs. 



CANTO THIRD. 



SIEGE OF GRAND- PRE, 



And there was mounting in hot haste : the steed. 

The mustering squadron, and the clattering car. 
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, 

And swiftly forming in the ranks of war ; 
And the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar ; 

And near, the beat of the alarming drum 
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; 

While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb. 
Or whispering, with white lips, ' The foe ! They come ! they 
come ! '" — Byron. 

" Hark ! 't is the sound that charms 
The war-steed's wakening ears ! — 

Oh ! many a mother folds her arms 
Round her boy-soldier, when that call she hears. 
And though her fond heart sinks with fears, 
Is proud to feel his young pulse bound 
With valour's fervor at the sound ! 
See ! from his native hills afar. 
The rude Acadian flies to war." — Moore. 



The wind was high, the snow fell deep, 
And the soldiers all were hush'd in sleep; 



Leisure Hours. 65 

vSave at the gate, despite the cold, 
A sentry stood, both young and bold : 
He watched with anxious eye around, 
And listened well to every sound; 
And so the night passed on. 



II 



'Twas early morn, 'bout half-past three, 
That we the Frenchman's flag did see. 
Floating free at musket range, 
Though it seemed to us quite strange. 
Our sentinels ne'er saw them, till 
Their banner floated o'er the hill. 
Then all was still, but for a minute: 
Soon each heart told what was in it ; 
And they heard our loud, long, cheer, 
Soundinsf in the startled air. 



Ill 



Our Colonel, 'wakened by the sound 
That filled the chilly air around, 



66 Leisure Hours. 

Sprang like a tiger from his bed, 
And grasped his sabre firm, and said : 
"Remember, lads, to-day we fight 
With God for freedom and the right." 
Then onward, through the fiery field. 
Brave Noble rushed with sword and shield, 
And fought his way far up the glen, 
'Midst bayonets of three hundred men. 
Right and left they felt his stroke ; 
Foremost through the line he broke. 
Nor did he stop, to spare his life, 
Nor flinch a moment from the strife ; 
But onward still he fought his way. 
Though in his shirt he led the way 
And thinned their ranks. 'Twas man to man 
Then the strife indeed began. 



IV, 



They stood amazed, and wondered why 
Our little handful did not fly 
Before their axe and sabre stroke, 
Or perish in the flame and smoke ; . 



Leisure Hours. 67 

And one by one our soldiers fell ; 
Still we fought on, and fought so well, 
They thought it vain to try. 



V. 



I watched brave Noble as he fought, 

And how he grasped his sword, and sought 

To be the foremost in the fight. 

For I was kept to guard the height. 

And I heard a yell ; with wonder, 

Saw our ranks were torn asunder. 

Looked for Noble, but in vain, — 

Poor man 1 he never fought again. 

For he had fallen in the van. 

Just as he felt the strife began. 



VI 



But when he fell, life seized my frame : 
I felt my soul come back again. 
I seized my sword, and rushed ahead, 
And fought among the many dead. 



68 Leisure Hours. 

Again the deadly charge was made ; 
Again they broke our ranks, and laid 
Another Noble at their feet, 
And rushed along the village street. 
Suspend our arms, then was the cry 
Among both armies. By and by 
They did so, and our leader came 
And cried, we hold the fort the same. 



VII. 

'Twas day-break, and the soldiers lay 
About the fields of old Grand-Pre. 
Here and there were soldiers lying ; 
Some were dead and some were dying 
Dread the scene, and sad to see. 
But sadder yet it was to be, 
For when the fight resumed again 
How many more would thus be slain ! 
I thus was thinking, when alone, 
I heard a grave unearthly moan ; 
And,, turning round, I saw a man 
Rise a while and sink again. 



Leisure Hours. 69 

I ran to him and raised his head, 
But he was gone — yes, he was dead ! 

VIII. 

Hark 1 that bugle calls me on 

To battle, where the rest have gone ; 

When hundreds rush at its command. 

Am I the only one to stand, 

I cannot ! will not ! must not stay — 

That sound, my comrades, I'll obey! 

Quick as lightning, off I ran. 

And joined my comrades in the van. 



The fight commenced, — a deadly strife 
Every man fought for his life — 
Life in one hand, death in th' other : 
Thus we fought for one another ; 
And our swords were gleaming bright, 
Shining through the misty light, 
A rush was made ; they broke our rank, 
And drove us to the basin's bank; 



yo Leisure Hours. 

Some went one way and some the other; 
Some turned and fought, and fell together, 
But I was hemmed : I could not fight, 
Nor would I make escape by flight. 
I then gave up my sword to them, 
But swore I 'd take it up again ; 
So I was made a prisoner — 
A prisoner of war. 

X. 

CONCLUSION. 

The Frenchmen gained the day, 

And the fort of old (jrand-Pre 
Gave up to them the blood-red cross of England : 

And they kept us poor lads there ; 

But we never shed a tear, 
Till they said we 'd never fight for bonny England. 



THE PRISONER. 

This short poem is connected with the last, inasmuch as Edwin 
Riithven, having been made a prisoner, was taken to the Chateau 
des Tombeaux, and there confined, where he remained for seven years 
and died. 

I. 

A LAS ! how slow my dreary hours pass by 
In this lone cell, where I have sat for years, 
Weeping and mourning o'er my bitter fate, 
And seeking no relief save that of tears. 
But grief to me has now grown old and stale ; 
My tears have long since sunk into the clay, 
And there remained. I tried but once, since 

here, 
To seek for liberty, but having failed, 
I tried no more. My chains and I seem com- 
rades ; 
So we are. I now have grown to like them, 
And believe we could not rest asunder. 
Let me see; 'tis now, if I think Avell, 



72 Leisure Hours. 

The seventh year that we have dwelt together. 

And why so? What have I done to you 

That you should bind me thus? Speak, if you 

can, 
And tell me what I've done. 'Tis past your 

power 1 
I once was so that I could master jw/. 
But now, ala^ ! 't is strange you master me, — 
You, whose paltry frame I fashioned out, 
And made you what you are. Why bind your 

maker ? 
Know you, these frail hands, so tightly bound. 
Once fought in freedom's field, and those weak 

limbs, 
That crack beneath your weight, once leaped 

with joy. 
But now, alas ! 't is done; no more I '11 roam 
O'er the bright green fields and azure hills, 
That once I called my home. 



II. 



But why should I thus mourn it? — 't is my fate. 
And Heaven has willed it so. I must obey. 



Leisure Hours. 73 



I would that Heaven had willed that I should die, 
Before the hour that made me thus a slave. 
Ah, me ! that moon, with such a happy face, 
Rides high up in the Heavens, and it smiles 
As if to scoff at me. Oh, happy being ! 
Thou little knowest how sad I feel to-day ; 
Still thou canst not help me: yet thou canst. 
If thou but curb that smile, and pity me 
As I would thee wert thou but in my place. 
I then would feel a thousand times more free. 
And think that Heaven had taken up my cause. 

III. 

Ah! once upon a time, in happier days. 
When England's blood -red banner rode the 

wave, 
Where Blomidon now stands there stood a fort, 
But it has long since perished, so 't is said, 
And those who once fought there are most all 

dead ; 
Still I am left, perhaps, to tell the tale : 
And well I can, for I remember well 
'Twas on a wintry night, when all alone. 



74 



Lei'surc Hours. 



I stood upon the heights of Blomidon. 

The moon, if mem'ry fails me not, was bright, 

And shed a silvery lustre o'er the snow. 

The wind from off the waters blew quite chill, 

Which made my young heart tremble, and I saw 

Upon the other hill a group of men, 

Bearing another banner: 't was the French I 

Whose numbers, soon increasing more and more. 

Alarmed me, and I gave the word "to arms," 

Which brought a hundred soldiers to the height. 

Our guns were mann'd, a bloody fight ensued, 

In which we poor Acadians were subdued. 

And I was in this murky dungeon cast, 

Never to be free till death would break my chains. 

{A bird chirps. ~\ 

What Heavenly sound is that ? it broke so clear 
Upon my flimsy brain, that first methought 
An angel whispered in my ear, but now 
I see I was mistaken : 't was a bird ! 

An airy thing 
That soars as high as Heaven will permit 
And then returns, with lightsome heart, and rests 



Leisuj-c Hours. 75 

Its weary self upon these gray old walls. 

Come, gentle angel, come, 
And sing another song ; it makes my heart 
Leap as it did some seven years ago 
When I was free, but now — cease, nature, cease. 
Thou wert not born for that ; those damp gray 

walls 
That form thy church and dwelling place, 
Also form thy grave. 

[// chirps agarn.'] 

Heavens I how sweet it sings to me, and speaks 

As if to comfort me, yet all its notes 

Fall like mem'ry on my sickened heart ; 

For when I think of all the happy hours 

I spent among those birds upon the mountains. 

Waiting and watching for the stars, it makes; 

My poor heart sink within my breast. 

And yet how strange ; to think that at this hour 

A bird should enter in my cell, and sing . 

Notes of comfort, even notes of joy ; but hush — 

It sings again ! 

\_The bird chirps the third ti)ne and then flics awa\'\ 



76 Leisure Hours. 

Can it be that God has sent it here 
To be the comfort of so low a being? — 
A prisoner — despised by all that 's good, 
The friend of misery, the slave of death. 

And must I believe 
That such a happy being would sink so low 
To whisper words of comfort to a slave? 

\A bugle souiids.'\ 

Hark ! what sound is that ? It seems to me 
Like something I have heard before ; it is 
The trumpet of the midnight hour, and yet 
There 's something in the call that I have heard 
When on the heights of Blomidon ! Again — 

, [// sounds a seeond tnne.~\ 

It speaks a clearer tone the second time — 
I know it now, it rings my very heart, 
The bugle that once lured me on before 
Speaks out again, and calls me to my post. 
Rise ! rise ! my sullen soul, and give me life ; 
Why slumber, when you hear your country call 
For help? Rise, rise, I say! and seize your 
native frame, 



Leisiwe Hoiu's. 77 

Put life in every nerve that I may share 

The honor of our freedom; ah! well done, — 

I feel another man ; my feeble form 

Feels stronger by a thousand times, and yet 

I cannot move beneath these heavy chains : 

They cling so to my limbs, my arms, my waists 

And bid me not dare move ; and my proud heart 

Leaps with the thought of being once more 

free. 
Onward, brave comrades, onward, for our cause 
Is good, and Heaven speaks for us; I '11 be free \ 
The very birds sing freedom in their way. 
And so will I ; oh God ! would I were with them \ 
But 't is vain to hope. 

\^A great noise outside, Vive V Acadie II^ 

Kind pity, how my heart jumps at those words ; 
The very air around it grows quite chill. 
Hark ! how the trumpet sounds along the shore,. 
The voice of freedom spreads itself afar ! 
The chains that once were dead are now alive. 
And those who sank beneath them now are free,. 
Save this cold piece of clay : but ho! what 's that ? 

(6) 



78 Leisure Hours. 

I heard the voice of some one call my name ; 
My prison door is open, — thanks. But who 's 

this? 
Speak, man! what want you here? I know you 

not: 
You are to me a stranger, and your clothes 
Denote you are not of our band ; speak quick, 
Or come not anear ! Stand off ! stand back, I 

say! 

\^He is fired at.'\ 

Oh God ! I'm shot : 
My brain whirls round, I feel, my head grows 

light ; 
I die, I die a prisoner and a slave ! 




MIDNIGHT MASS IN MONTREAL 
COLLEGE. 



" Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow, 
And tread softly and speak low. 
For the old year lies a-dying." — Tennyson. 



T T ARK to the silvery tones of the chimes as 

they ring from the belfry; 
Hark to their mystical notes as they break on the 

hush of the evening, 
Softly they tell to the people the birth of the 

infant Redeemer, 
As the angel, in times gone by, to the Shepherds 

who watched on the mountains. 
Slowly, with reverend mien, the throng nears the 

College and Chapel, 



8o Leisure Hours. 

Making their way through the snow, as it falls in 

a mist by the wayside, 
There, at the foot of the mountain, surrounded 

by fruit trees of all kinds, 
Covered with flakes of snow, and o'erlooking the 

city beneath it, 
Stands, like ''the rock of ages," the seat of the 

holy Sulpitians. 
Soon, from its antique windows, illumined with 

figures of angels, 
Streamed out a brilliant reflection that stretched 

itself half o'er the meadow. 
Giving a silvery tint to the snow, as it gleamed 

on the tree-tops; 
When, from the sacred old Chapel, a gush of 

sweet music ascended. 
That struck to my heart like the sound of a 

thousand of angels seraphic, 
Slowly I 'rose from my seat, and turning my 

steps to the College, 
I marched with the rest of the throng, and we 

entered the Chapel together. 
There, at the head of the aisle, stood the crib, 

and around it were standing 



Leisure Hours. 8i 

The men of the East, with the Shepherds, an ass 

and a couple of oxen, 
While at the right sat the Virgin, who gazed on 

the source of attraction, — 
Gazed on that object of love, a young infant, the 

Saviour of mankind ; 
Then 'rose the Priest to the altar, and lifting his 

eyes up to Heaven, 
He blessed us, ''in nomine Fatris, et Filii, et 

Spiritus Saneti. ' ' 



II 



Slowly the altar-boys came, two by two, in a line, 

and surrounded 
And knelt by the steps of the altar, each bearing 

a glimmering taper. 
Received they the holy Priest's blessing, and 

rising they marched to their places. 
Making a low genuflection when passing the crib 

of the Infant. 
Oh ! what a heavenly sound, when three hundred 

stentorian voices 



82 Leisure Hours. 

Mingled their martial accords in the silvery 

Kyrie E lei son I 
Then did the strength of religion sink deep in 

my heart as I listened, 
And heard, with a reverend awe, the voices that 

echoed in Heaven. 
Oh I who would not love to be there, 'mid such 

glory and music incessant : 
There, in the presence of God, with a thousand 

of lights burning 'roimd us; 
There, as a tribute of love, the odor of incense 

ascended ; 
There, in the presence of all, stood the Saviour 

Himself on the altar. 



II 



Lo ! with a holy devotion rose the Priest, and he 

mounted the altar. 
And sang with a tremulous voice that sounded 

throughout the whole chapel ; 
Slowly the choristers answered and sang the 

responses, and suddenly 



Leisure Hours. 83 

All was as silent as death, when loud the Adcste 

fideles 
Rang through the aisles of the Chapel and out in 

the air of the morning. 
Oh, what a heavenly sight to behold ! full some 

three hundred voices 
Raised in a body to God, in the midst of such 

splendor and glory, 
Praising His holy name, and returning Him 

thanks on His birthday. 
Oh ! if with words I could tell half the throbs of 

my heart at that moment, 
As my Saviour lay there in a manger, wrapped 

in the clothes of an infant; 
The thoughts that then rushed to my mind, filled 

my tremulous heart with emotion 
That flowed o'er my troubled soul like balm on 

the wounds of the wounded. 



IV. 



The Regia Missa was done, when some three 
hundred students assembled, 



34 Leisure Hours. 

And received they the Holy Communion from the 

hands of the Priest at the raiUngs ; 
Then rising with solemn composure, repeated 

with fervent devotion 
An act of thanksgiving, then formed in a brilliant 

and gorgeous procession. 
Then followed the young Seminarians, the 

Tonsured, Sub-deacons and Deacons, 
As the Shepherds, in times of old, when they 

left their herds on the mountains. 
To follow the Angel of God to the stable where 

laid the Redeemer, 
Wrapped up in swaddling clothes and exposed 

in a manger at Bethlehem. 
Slowly they entered the vestry, each bowing when 

passing the altar. 
Until not a soul of five hundred remained save 

the choir and the people. 
Then, lastly, the people arose, and, leaving the 

Chapel, proceeded 
Along through the snow to the city, and,, turning, 

they scattered asunder. 
Oh ! many a time have I thought, as I sat all 

alone by the fireside. 



Leisure Hours. 85 

And gazed on the flickering blaze that ascended 

part way up the chimney, 
Of the cold, chilly Christmas eve, when the wind 

from the noble St. Lawrence 
Swept o'er the snow-covered fields, and fought 

with the trees in the forest. 
Ever, while memory lasts me, the thoughts of 

that night shall I cherish ; 
Ever, as long as this world of care will revolve 

on its axis; 
Ever, as long as the sun will continue to shine 

with its glory ; 
So shall my heart ever sigh for that night that I 

spent in the college. 




LINES ON THE BURNING OF STRAS- 
BURG CATHEDRAL. 

Having read an account of the burning of Strasburg Cathedral in 
one of the daily papers of this city, the idea occurred to me that it 
would form a fit subject for a poem ; since then I have learned that it 
has not been so much injured as I had supposed. The rest explains 
itself. I have tried to represent the feelings of the French under the 
circumstances, and therefore any words which may otherwise appear 
harsh, will, I hope, be readily pardoned. 

I. 

A RISE, ye poor forsaken Frenchmen 1 
Gaze on yonder burning spire : 
See the consecrated mansion, 
In a mass of flame and fire ! 



II 



Dwelling place of God and angels, 
Place^where sainted feet oft trod, 

Place where hands of Priests anointed 
Lifted up the Host to God. 



Leisure Hours. 87 



III. 



Ah, we cannot ! See the bomb-shells 
And the bullets, how they fly ; 

See the many thousand Prussians 
Raising up their ceaseless cry. 



IV 



Fear them not, preserve your courage, 
Hold aloft the blessed cross ; 

Ask of God and Heaven to help you : 
Then He will redeem your loss. 



v. 



'Tis too late, — our power is useless; 

Prussians swarm on every side ; 
And the force we use against them 

Seems to serve them as a guide. 



VI 



Arise, arise, the flames are raging ! 

Look I they catch the massive door, 
And tearing from its mighty hinges, 

Whirl it into nevermore. 



88 Leisure Hours. 

VII. 

Oh, we cannot ! Count their legions, 
Thick as rain drops as they fall, 

As they swarm by thousands round us, 
Bathing us with shot and ball. 

VIII. 

Once you drank the cup of glory. 
With such joy as none can tell ; 

But since you 've become apostates, 
Now you feel the powers of Hell. 

IX. 

The minster 1 oh, the minster ! save it,- 
Save it e'er the flames have swayed; 

If all human power avails not. 
Call on God's Almighy aid. 



Stop the flames — they 've reached the belfry ! 

Add more water — raise the hose ! 
'Tis the house of God that, burning. 

Sinks beneath the fire of foes. 



Leisure Hours. 89 



Cast aside your false believings, 
Be ye Infidels no more ; 

If you don't the curse of Heaven 
Falls upon you evermore. 



XII 



Who can paint th' eternal sorrow 
Of that suffering nation now? 

Stripped of all its ancient glory, 
And to strangers forced to bow. 



XIII. 

Oh ! ye holy Saints and Martyrs, 

Ever blessed sons of France, 
Look ye down upon your country : 

Pray for its deliverance. 

XIV. 

Let a host of prayers be offered, 
That may sound from pole to pole ; 

Let us ask of God above us. 
In the name of every soul : 

' ' Salvos fac nos ; Domine. 



A LETTER. 



TO MV FRIEND, JOHN RITCHIE. 
Dear Friend : 

T 'M sleepy, yet I 'm sitting 
•^ With my pen in my hand, 
Reading o'er the poem I 've written 

On "The Poor Blind Man;" 
And the lamp is burning dimly, 

For the want of oil, 
While the fire plays up the chimney 

With a pleasant smile. 
Oh, how lonesome 1 hear the clock tick, 

On the mantel-piece, 
And its lonely dock-dick, dock-dick, 

Seems will never cease. 
So now I think I must conclude, 

The hours are slipping by : 
Let this close my short interlude ; 

Your dear friend — John, 

Good-bye. 

May ibth, 1870. 



MISCELLANEOUS SCRAPS. 




TO ELLA. 

/^H, tell me, has absence o'ershadowed the 

^-^ past, 

Or the love that you once bore for me 

Been commingled with jealousy, which, to the 

last. 
Hangs around thy soft heart once so free ? 
Oh, I cannot believe that a lady so fair 
As my Ella, could ever forget 
The one who has loved her till life could not tear 
The love which he bears for thee yet. 

Feln-iiary xj,th, 1870. 

ANSWER TO SOME SARCASTIC 
VERSES BY J. P. CLARK. 

T THANK you, my friend, for that piece of 

your mind. 
And assure you your muse was of extra fine kind ; 

(7) 



94 Leisure Hours. 

When your pencil rolls over a few of those 

pieces, 
Your mind often stops, but your heart never 

ceases 
To grasp at sarcasm that indignantly flows 
From the seat of your heart to the top of your 

nose. 



'Tis no wonder you 've caused such a noise in 
the school : 

I 've remarked it the way of most every fool; 

Your paltry old poems are the rage for a time. 

But they soon die away for the want of good 
rhyme. 

As [a friend I 'd advise you to drop off your 
punning, 

And turn your ideas into something more cun- 
ning. 




TO LIZZIE, ON HER BIRTHDAY. 

IMPROMPTU. 

TTERE 'S to drink thy health, dear Lizzie, 

With a glass of ginger ale, 
Warm and, dear me, oh I how frizzy. 
Neither lets me weep nor wail. 

Many men who drink their brandy. 

Do not feel so gay as I, 
For my ginger ale, so handy. 

Rises up and makes me spry. 

Now 'tis gone I feel so funny; 

If you drank it so would you; 
Next they ask me where 's my money : 

I tell them they can charge that too. 

To-day's your birthday, so you told me; 

But what changes since that time I 
I 've grown older, and behold me 

Floating into things divine. 

July joth, 1870. 




IMPROMPTU AT AN EVENING 
PARTY. 

/^^OME, pass the wine around, my boys, 

^^ Before we go away, 

And have one glass at parting, boys, 

To greet the coming day. 
Then here 's a glass in friendship, boys. 

To soothe each other's pain, 
That we may live in peace, my boys. 

Until we meet again. 



':#. 



LINES ON PRESENTING A LADY 
WITH MY PICTURE. 



'T^ IS a paltry affair 

That is offered you here^ 



Leisure Hours. 97 

Though I wish in my heart it were better ; 

Yet still with a sigh, 

I must only reply, 
'T would be hard to get more in a letter. 



LINES WRITTEN ON A VALENTINE 
TO MISS CARRIE R Y. 

OUCH music as one hears from you, 
^ Was never heard before 
From Coote or Hayden ; even, too, 
You 've beat the milky Moore. 



By rattling 'mong your flats and sharps, 

That sound so very fine ; 
They 've charmed full many a dozen hearts, 

But never will charm mine. 



LINES, 

ON BEIN(; PRESENTED WITH AN IVORY SILVER- 
MOUNTED POCKET-BOOK. 

"T^HIS present, dear sir, is a token which tells 
^ me 

You do not forget a good turn when 't is done, 
And believe me, my friend, but your kindness 

compels me 
To show you I 'm grateful' in more ways than one. 



Let this pocket-book, shining with silver so 

bright, 
Ever rest on my mind when I 'm far, far away, 
And when opening its pages to draw or to write, 
May thy face be as fresh in my mind as to-day. 



TO ANNA. 

YX7HYfret, Anna? 
Tell me, truly, 
Is it love that makes you weep? 

I 'm sure I never 

Thought you 'd ever 
Sigh for him you couldn't keep. 

He was handsome, 

But what of it ? 
There are many more as good ; 

Yes, there 're many. 

Lovely Annie, 
That would love you if they could. 

Believe me, dearest, 

What I tell you 
Is not meant to make you fret; 

But to warn you 

Those who scorn you 
Will kneel down and crave you yet. 



.7V 






EPITAPH ON MY SISTER. 

Ty'NEEL gently on this bed of clay, 

And offer up one little prayer; 
'T will serve you at some future day, — 
A mother's love is buried here. 

The lily and the rose combine 
Their odors o'er this sacred bed, 
While nature makes a brother pine, 
For here the one he loved lies dead. 



^^^n^ 



LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM 

IMPROMPTU. 

'T^HIS album that you offer me, 

I take with great delight. 
But, on my word, there 's poverty 
In every thing I write; 



Leisure Hours. ic 

For when I look at its contents, 

And read each happy Une, 
'Tis with rehictance I assent 

To add a verse of mine. 

Still, dearest friend, with fortitude 

I write these lines to you, 
Hoping, though my verse be crude, 

You '11 find me ever true. 
There are two lines that I would write, 

Before I sign my name : 
That is, as friends we are to-night. 

We ever will remain. 

JSlovember 12, 1870. 



TO A FRIEND. 

Y friend, you 've been so very kind, 
I '11 write you this small lay. 
For oh ! there 's weight upon my mind 
The longer I delay. 



M 



Leisure Hours. 

So now, as not to cause a doubt 

Of how I prize a friend, 
I '11 try my best to fashion out 

Some lines which soon must end. 

'T is true I 've promised thrice or more 

To pen you some small verse, 
But those I 've written heretofore 

Are most of them dispersed. 
Some I lost, and more I burned, 

And others, dear knows what. 
But of the whole both lost and burned, 

This one is all I 've got. 



TO ANNIE. 



A "\ THEN reading o'er my paltry verse, 

Of course you '11 think of me. 
But when you think, please intersperse 
A few remarks of glee ; 



Leisure Hours. 

For if there is a happy hour 
In this wide world of care, 

'Tis when I think of you, my flower, 
My oAvn sweet Annie dear. 

A few short lines, to make you laugh. 

Would play a better part 
Than telling how love's epitaph 

Is written on my heart. 
I might have known, poor fool I am. 

That you do n't like such stuff. 
So now, I '11 stop, my little lamb, 

I think you 've had enough. 



^m^^^m^ 



ODE TO THE LILY. 

C\^ ! sweet lily, fair and white. 
Opening at the dawn of day. 
Praise that Spirit, pure and bright. 
Who gave thee birth amid the clay. 



103 



04 Leisure Hours. 

He made thee pure, like Him, and fair. 
And placed thee on this lovely hill. 
And from thy mouth one little prayer 
Would bring thee perfumes greater still. 
1864. 



TO HANNAH. 

WRITTEN IN HER ALBUM, NOVEMBER 15TH, 1870. 

'T^O oblige you, my friend, is a pleasure 
That is very much welcomed by me, 
Though you ask me to write at my leisure 
Let that leisure immediately be. 

'Tis not always I feel in the humor. 

Though perhaps 't is my wish that I should; 

For there 's sometimes I think I could sooner 
Go saw at a cord of hard wood. 



Leisure Hours. 105 

So now that I 'm here I '11 endeavor 

To scribble you some little lay ; 
Let it be that our friendship may ever 

Be as firm and sincere as to-day. 



THE HUNTER'S MORNING SONG. 

[Set to music by the author.] 

/^H ! look to the golden west, 
^^ See the sun has gone to rest 

'Neath his arch of gold, 

And his azure mold. 
Out, out on the ocean's breast. 

CHORUS : 

For I am a hunter bold, 
And I care not that for gold. 
But I love to roam 
From my pleasant home. 
To the mountains high and cold. 



io6 Leisure Hours. 

But give me my own dear land, 
With its hills and lakes so grand ; 

And I cast aside, 

To the ocean wide. 
All the gold I can find in the land. 

CHORUS : 

For I am a hunter bold, 
And I care not tliat for gold ; 

r But I love to roam 

Bis. -j From my pleasant home, 

I To the mountains high and cold. 

MORAL. 

A MAN is not always inclined to do good. 
Although it is written that always he should. 

FLNLS. 

'■ nPHE book is completed. 

And closed like the day, 
And the hand that has written it 
Lays it away." 



N o r E s . 



Acadia, my Home by the Sea. 

Page 13. I am not the author of this poem, nor am I at liberty 
to tell his name. 

Kissing Bridge. 

Page 15. A little stone bridge near the city of Halifax, famous 
for its having been the resort of lovers in olden times. 

Page 16. Chebucto Bay. Halifax Harbor, formerly Chebucto 
Bay, from the little town of Chebucto on its bank, now Halifax. 
" And the rich, brilliant bosom of Chebucto Bay 
Stretched out in the distance to welcome the day." 
Set to music by Mr. Emil Wahle. 

Lines, written during a Thunder Storm. 

Page 20. Great Si. James and Notre Dame. Two of the 
principal streets in Montreal. 

To My Hat. 

Page 26. An old white hat worn by the author during a series of 
hardships in New York. 

Page 26. So -we' II have it. I doubt very much if "planet" 
and "have it " rhyme well, but if not, I will have to say as Ben 
JoNSON said : " It is n't rhyme, but it is true." 

Prophecy. 

Page 31. " O'er Deco's head." Deco, meaning deceitful, the 
name by which the person to whom the poem is addressed is called. 



io8 Notes. 

Canadian Reviewers . 

Page 38. John Dotigall sits. John Dougall, editor of the 
Montreal Daily Witness. 

Page 38. As Cameron commence. John Cameron — writes 
for the Illustrated Canadian News. 

The Rambler. 

Page 41. / crossed thy stream, fair Sissibou, alone. Sissibou, 
a river in Nova Scotia. See illustration. 

"And sparkles on its winding way, 
The gentle Sissibou." 

Page 47. Gnssaa Carlo! Gussaa, a Micmac Indian word 
meaning " Get out," or " Clear away," used only in speaking to 
dogs. 

Page 66. Brave Xoble rushed. Colonel Noble, commanding 
the English. 

Page 68. Another Noble at their feet. Ensign Noble fell 
shortly after his brother the Colonel. 

Page 69. To the basin's bank. The basin of IMinas. 

The Prisoner. 

Page 73. Where Blomidoii now stands. Mount Blomidon, at 
the head of the basin of Minas. 

" And Blomidon, a sentry grim, 
Stands out to stud the deep." 

The Hunter's Morning Song. 

Page 105. Set to music by the author. 



